


Contemporary Theories of Infatuation

by aactionjohnny



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, College professors, Dating, Dating Coworkers, M/M, Mutual Pining, background Anathema/Newton
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-12
Updated: 2019-08-17
Packaged: 2020-08-20 05:22:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 15,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20222494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aactionjohnny/pseuds/aactionjohnny
Summary: Professor Fell and Professor Crowley are experts in their respective fields, but utter novices at love. Which is unfortunate, since they are enamored of one another. They do their best in their blossoming relationship.





	1. Pessimism

**Author's Note:**

> u can tell I’m too deep into something when I start doing AU stuff and Here we are
> 
> I will probably get some things wrong about university in England because I’m not from there so please forgive me lol

He has gotten distracted again. No matter how early he arrives in his office, no matter how many alarms and reminders he sets, he always manages to dally. Usually it is for a reason he can reconcile. Engrossed in reading, grading papers. But today he’d simply been standing at his window, running his fingers along the grate of the air conditioning, looking down into the soft green grass where one of his colleagues was giving an outdoor lecture. His students all gathered around him amidst the trees and bushes as he saunters around, gesturing and inspiring the youth around him. Professor Crowley, doctor of philosophy, treating the question of morality like a piece of contemporary art.

He’d allowed himself to watch for a little too long, sighing at the utter magnificence of the man. Oh, it is nothing new, his fascination. They’d met years ago at a conference, shared one drink, gotten on quite well, and then gone about their careers. Years still later, Dr. Crowley got a job at his same university, as if by some divine providence, bringing them closer together again. But he’d only grown more beautiful and languid, and A.Z. became bashful, refusing to pursue him for fear of simply not being enough, or his type, or stumbling over his words and making a complete fool of himself.

That’s A.Z., like his so many subjects of study. There’s a T.S. An H.D. Even E.E. Cummings, which makes his younger students laugh, and then he sighs in disappointment. 

But this morning he’s late for a class on transnational literature, an upper division one, for his students who are so close to graduating. And he fails them by being a schoolboy. 

“Oh, bother—“ He grabs his bag and rushes out of his office, frowning at his watch. Really, it’s not befitting his tenured position to act so foolishly. He stares at his feet in their leather shoes as he strides with the utmost urgency toward the door, onto the quad, down the path to the proper building—

“Oi—!” He hears the sound of an impossibly heavy textbook hitting the pavement. “For fuck’s sa— Ah! Dr. Fell!”

There he is, in all his glory, droplets of sweat on his temple from his feverish lecturing. Such passion…

“So sorry, Dr. Crowley—“ he stammers, bending down to get the book and close it. “Hope I’ve not ruined it—“

“S’Fine,” he insists, dusting it off. “Old edition, don’t use it anymore. Used it for my student to stand on for her speech. She’s small…”

“That’s...very supportive of you,” A.Z. says, wondering if it’s true, wondering if indeed Dr. Crowley really just wanted to embarrass her.

“Yeah,” he nonchalantly agrees. “Then we had a debate about setting the damned thing on fire.”

“Oh my— burning a book! Surely the students were against it!”

He’ll be even more late, now.

“You’ve any idea how expensive these things are? They all voted to set it ablaze.”

“Well…” he gives Dr. Crowley a sheepish smile. Goodness, he’s magnificent in the sunlight that filters through the trees. “I suppose it’s not one of the classics. Burn away.”

Dr. Crowley laughs and tips his charming sunglasses at him. 

“You ought to come. Tonight at eight, in the woods. We burn the book and read some Voltaire, you’ll love it.” And just like that, he seems to dissolve into the crowd, offering A.Z. nothing but a casual wave. He sighs. Surely his students have decided he’s taken too long, surely they will all leave the classroom. But still he shuffles along, trying to cool the steam that seems to rise from his ears. Everything about that man is like a smooth but stiff drink.

When finally he does arrive in the classroom, he’s relieved to see that most of the seats are still full.

“My deepest apologies,” he says, realizing he is breathless. “You know how it is. So much work to do.”

“We saw you talking to Dr. Crowley through the window,” the incorrigible Ms. Device informs him, not taking her nose out of her book. Beside her, Mr. Pulsifer giggles, so clearly smitten with her mysterious wiles and wit.

“We— it was  _ about _ work!” he protests, setting his bag down on the desk. “Now Anathema I implore you to put down your—“ he squints “—studies in Druid ritual, and open up the Baudelaire I  _ assigned _ .” She smiles, innocent, and slides the book into her backpack in exchange for  _ Le Spleen de Paris, New Translations.  _

“ _ Thank _ you.” Despite his tone, he smiles at her. She is one of his brightest students, and a good study buddy to poor Newton, who seems always out of his depth, but so darling. He does write wonderfully insightful papers though, albeit a little disorganized.

They read some of Baudelaire’s Parisian observations, and he smiles through it, adoring the words, thankful for the excellent translation because of his utter lack of mastery in French.

Once class is finished, he sits at the desk to collect himself. He contemplates the evening. He has technically been invited, and he can’t help but wonder if Dr. Crowley has asked any other professors along. If not, then...oh dear. It will be just them and a bunch of students. And Voltaire, of course. 

He retires back to his office to work, all the while imagining the hot sensation of a bonfire illuminating his face in the dark, the smell of thick smoke and the sound of a delightful man reading  _ Candide. _ He will have to go. He couldn’t forgive himself if he missed this opportunity to be near to him. 

And he has the gall to say that Mr. Pulsifer is smitten. He has it even worse.

-

It is the time of year when the day is hot and the night is cool. Thus, he’s brought a cardigan just in case the fire is not enough to keep him warm. Perhaps he’ll have a seat on a log beside Dr. Crowley…

No doubt his students fawn over him. He is the picture of sex, a slithering, mysterious honeypot, shimmering, certainly, in the moonlight.

He finds the open patch in the forest, sees some students holding flashlights, and Dr. Crowley kneeling on the ground to start a fire within a circle of rocks.

“Oh good, I’m not too late for your utter atrocity,” A.Z. says lightly, daring to tease. The nighttime makes him brave. Dr. Crowley turns his head, his brow raised, a pleased and surprised grin on his face.

“Consider it an act of protest against capitalism, Dr. Fell.” One of the students, a girl clearly stoned out of her mind, gives a celebratory shout. “Calm down, Maria, you’ve only got a B right now.”

The other students chuckle, and somehow, so does Maria. The way he manages to charm people...certainly he’s already got someone in his life. Surely he’s a fool for coming here, hoping for anything more than seeing an expensive textbook burst into flames.

“Shall we begin?” Dr. Crowley asks, dropping a match onto the firewood. Maria hands him the book, and he holds it above the growing flame as if he will drop it, but then he hesitates. “On second thought…” He turns around, smiling slyly, holding out the book. “Maybe my esteemed colleague feels like committing an  _ atrocity…” _

“Oh, I couldn’t, really—“

“Come on now,  _ Professor,”  _ he says, his voice like a seductive growl. Even if he doesn’t mean for it to be, it is. And it works. “I know you’re not above being a little bad sometimes.”

Goodness, he could just about fall over. 

The students look on expectantly, challenging him with their gazes, so hopeful that he will give in.

“Oh...very well,” he agrees, taking the hefty book in his hands. “But you mustn’t tell the rest of the English department. I’ll be crucified.”

The students clap and cheer as he holds the book over the fire, and when he drops it, Dr. Crowley claps him on the back.

It catches quickly, and the fire begins to truly roar, casting a strong circle of light around the pit. The red glow looks astonishing on Dr. Crowley’s complexion, on his hair. A.Z. knows he is staring, knows that there is no longer enough darkness to mask it, and yet he cannot look away from the sight.

Dr. Crowley takes notice, taking his eyes off of the fire and turning to look at him, subtly biting his bottom lip, and, honest to God in Heaven,  _ winks. _

The sounds of the night do drown out A.Z.’s amorous squeaking, and Dr. Crowley walks away to take out his copy of  _ Candide. _

He sits on a log beside Maria and listens to Dr. Crowley read aloud, animated and passionate. 

_ “I have wanted to kill myself a hundred times, but somehow I am still in love with life. This ridiculous weakness is perhaps one of our more stupid melancholy propensities, for is there anything more than to be eager to go on carrying a burden which one would gladly throw away, to loathe one’s very being and yet to hold it fast, to fondle the snake that devours us until it has eaten our hearts away?” _

A.Z. knows the novel well, but knows it also as a satirical philosophical tome. And Dr. Crowley makes his students know it, too.

“I’ve said before that reading  _ Candide _ is the pinnacle of the philosophy major experience. Really makes you feel like it’s all bullshit, doesn’t it? Good to stay humble,” he jests, tossing the book back into his bag. He bids the students to begin their discussion, and his presence in the conversation fades utterly into non existence, so inspiring he is. A.Z. wishes he had the guts to tell him. He wishes they were alone. No philosophy students, just the two of them and a fire. Just the oaky smell of the woods and the stars twinkling above. 

But that would be too perfect. It is too optimistic and romantic, just like the book. 

Eventually the students disperse, bidding them both a giggly goodnight, and he doesn’t think to ask what it’s about. They sit in silence for a while, watching the flames curl and stretch. Dr. Crowley takes a small bottle of red wine from his bag, pops out the cork, and hands it to A.Z.

“Oh, thank you,” he says, breathy and grateful. 

“Owe you a drink, don’t I? I think you paid, back then…”

“Oh, you remember?”

“I wouldn’t just  _ forget _ .”

A.Z. silences himself with a sip from the bottle, then hands it back.

“You know, I—“ Dr. Crowley begins, and then starts desperately coughing. The wind has swiftly changed. “Bloody smoke—“

“Oh, here—“ A.Z. grabs for his cardigan, spreads it like a shield before them both, a filter for the smoke as the wind blows hard. “Well I...I suppose we could just sit on the other side…” he says, feeling like a fool. But Dr. Crowley just smiles. He just leans his chin in one hand, his elbow resting on his skinny leg.

“Nah.”

Behind their veil, they falter. It would be so easy, in that moment, to give in. To kiss him, damn the consequences, and to tell him he’s been adoring him for months. But they hear a rustling behind then, and he drops the curtain, turning to look.

It’s Ms. Device, Mr. Pulsifer in tow, dragging him by the hand into the brush.

“Oh— Professor Fell!” she says, eyes wide behind her glasses that seem to glow in the light of the fire. “We were just, um…”

“I’ll pretend not to know,” A.Z. says, saved by their presence from utterly embarrassing himself. “I should, er…head home, Professor Crowley. Thank you for the...book burning.” He stands, shuffling away, stuffing his arms into the cardigan. It smells of smoke now.

“It’s  _ Anthony! _ ” Dr. Crowley shouts after him.

“Right!” He quickens his pace. Oh, he’s a fool. Too romantic for his own good, making a love scene out of a bonfire. 

But still, on the walk home, his mind is filled with visions of that smiling man, the sound of his dramatic voice, the way he smiles when his students come to their revelations. How he seemed so touched to be shielded from the smoke…

It will not get any better, will it? He is doomed to fall in love like an idiot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> He’s dumb, your honor
> 
> Let me know what you think so far! I’m excited


	2. Optimism

He finishes the bottle of wine by himself, waiting for the fire to die down, having sent the two students off somewhere else where they can’t bother him. He’s disappointed, sure, but he knows it was stupid to expect anything. Unlike him, Dr. Fell is probably a _ professional _ . That, or he’s oblivious. Or both. A professional idiot.

But god dammit, if Anthony doesn’t adore him anyway. Ever since they met, that man has been stuck on his mind like a plague. To see him again, when he joined this faculty, when he carried his plants into his new office last year...his knees nearly buckled. He is a man who shines so brightly it seems as though he is descended from heaven, if Anthony believed in that sort of thing. It’s up for debate in his classes nearly every day. 

The next morning he shows up to class, exhausted from having downed yet another bottle of wine in the woods that night, and tosses his over-the-shoulder bag onto the desk.

“Professor…?” Maria asks, leaning forward over her desk. “Did it not go well?”

He keeps his eyes closed, but points at her angrily.

“You,” he groans, “are going to have to do some extra credit if you don’t keep your voice down.”

“Sorry,” she whispers, a flat hand beside her lips to project the sound. “He seemed to be having so much fun. What did you do to mess it up?”

It was a big mistake, getting so off-topic with his students that they started talking about the ins and outs of love. If it’s worth it, how far one is willing to go for it, so on and so forth. Inevitably someone asked him about his personal life, and, fool that he is, he let it slip.

“I did not  _ mess it up _ , Maria,” he corrects, though he doesn’t really believe it. He sighs and takes off his sunglasses, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and finally looking out upon the sea of desks. “Don’t you have a paper you owe me or something? God…”

“You didn’t assign us anything last night. You were talking to Professor Fell and you told us to, er,  _ ‘fuck off,’ _ ” she informs him, seeming rather proud of herself.

“Right, well…” He cracks his neck and stands up, reaching for a dry-erase marker and writing in big, bold letters:

N I H I L I S M

“Today we skip ahead to another topic, a’right? Nihilism, or as I like to call it, the radical acceptance that nothing fucking matters!” He does not write that bit down, but he smiles to see his students begin to scribble in their notebooks. “Why pursue love? It won’t work out! Why pull some big book-burning bonfire stunt to try and get a man to notice you? Don’t bother!”

“Um--” Maria raises her hand.

“ _ What. _ ”

“I don’t think that Camus--”

“Don’t-- ugh…” He sits back down, resting his aching head on the desk. “I saw Dr. Fell reading  _ The Stranger _ once. Don’t talk to me about Camus.” He’s pathetic, he knows. Making a complete ass of himself in front of so many bright young minds who just want to learn something. He’s usually quite good at his job, really. Usually the promise of the end of the day, of running into Dr. Fell in the hall or on the path, it motivates him to get through his classes with passion and gusto. But this morning, he feels like he’s been hit by a car. He sighs and looks back up at the class. “M’sorry, guys. Got a bit drunk last night. Don’t tell the department head. It’ll be my second strike.”

“Our lips are sealed, professor.”

He manages to smile, and to get through the rest of the lecture without any more dramatic, amorous outbursts.

-

Once his classes are over for the day, he saunters back toward his office to finish up on some things, and he sees that young couple from the night before, sitting at the base of a tree, lips locked and hands wandering. He sneers, but it is only to ignore the pang of jealousy. He never really got that youthful feeling with anyone. Sure, he’s been subject to lust and a few failed relationships, but no one ever seemed to light a spark in him. 

No one but a tenured English professor. 

He ignores the couple, scoffing at their public display of affection, and hunches over as he continues to walk. But, he spares one glance toward the sky, looking for rain to fit his mood, and on the way back down he sees an open window. Dr. Fell, leaning on his elbows, looking out into the field below, an open book in his hands, pages fluttering gently in the wind. Anthony feels like some sort of mythical lover, coming to his window to profess his love, to bring gifts and promises. But he chokes. Before he can keep going, Dr. Fell waves lightly at him, a polite smile on his face. Anthony is then thankful for being far away, because the snorting, squeaking sound he makes is most unseemly and very much unlike him. But he nods his head, waves back, casual but coy. He squints to try and see the book he’s reading, but he’s too high up.

And, divinely, he beckons him with a twist of his hand, smiling brightly, inviting him into his office. He feels absolved, and he nods too vigorously, but he knows he can’t blame his sudden dizziness on that.

He takes the stairs, practically sprinting, knowing he’ll be out of breath by the time he reaches the fifth floor, but throwing caution to the wind, anyway. Maybe Dr. Fell will find his pathetic panting endearing. Maybe he’ll see that he would run  _ miles  _ to catch him. 

When he reaches his office, the door is open, and Dr. Fell is closing the blinds. Anthony gulps, knowing he oughtn’t form any libidinal assumptions about it, and instead he gives him a relieved smile when finally he turns around and places his book back on the desk.

Pound’s  _ Cathay _ , a well-worn and annotated version, rife with post-it notes.

“Afternoon,” Anthony says, obliging him when he’s offered a seat. Dr. Fell sits as well.

“I felt I owed you an apology, Dr. Crowley.”

“Anthony.”

“A...Anthony…” He coughs and adjusts his posture. “I left rather quickly last night, didn’t I?”

“You’re...a busy man.” Catching his breath is no easy task, now that he’s face-to-face with him. He looks all the more angelic today than ever before.

“I meant to thank you for a wonderful evening. It was nice to relax and let go a little. Do something I...would never dream of.”

“I suppose you won’t make a habit of burning books, though?”

“Oh, do keep your voice down, Anthony,” he teases, and the sound of his name in that hushed tone makes his chest hurt, his toes curl. He laughs, awkward and gleeful, and he’s relieved to see that Dr. Fell laughs as well, his lips tight and his fingers laced, looking bashfully down at his desk. 

“Look, I…” Anthony coughs, leaning back in his chair, trying so much to seem as though his heart doesn’t threaten to beat out of his chest. “I’d love to, er...go out properly sometime.”

“Go...out?”

“With you. To...not the woods, and without students.”

“As in...well…” Dr. Fell fidgets. Shit, he’s gone and fucked it up, hasn’t he? “What, er...what did you have in mind?”

He can practically feel the color drain from his face, then. He has lots of things in mind. Many of them not appropriate for the setting, the rest of them too numerous to pick just one.

“Uh...a drink? Maybe?”

“Alright.”

“Dinner.”

“I do love to eat…”

Anthony grins, thankful for his dark glasses to hide the gleam in his eyes. Had he known it would be that easy, he’d have asked a long time ago. But so many words hang on his tongue. Is it a date? Is it the promise of a meaningless hookup? Does Dr. Fell simply pity him? He feels so teenage and lost. 

“You name the day, then, Dr. Fell,” he says, standing up from his chair, wondering what the customary thing is when you’ve just invited someone out. A handshake? That would be insane. He keeps his hands in his pockets.

“Please, A.Z. is just fine,” he assures him. “I’ll...be in touch.”

After some fumbling laughter and a few nods of their heads, Anthony manages to leave with a sliver of his dignity in tact. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anthony janthony is a drama queen and we have decided to stan forever
> 
> they're so awkward


	3. Romanticism

He stands in front of his full-length mirror, fingers on either side of his bowtie, making sure it’s just right, that it’s even and full of volume. Always does he take such great care to make sure he looks neat; it is a good facade against the chaos that he feels inside, almost always. He loves his job, his students, he has a lovely two-floor flat with a beautiful view. But he knows that, deep down, he’s a mess. Lonesome and clinging to the written word as a liferaft in the storm. He has no idea what he’s doing, getting ready for Anthony to come get him, take him out to this fancy cocktail bar he told him about. Everything about it screams that it’s a date, but so fragile is his self-worth he has trouble fathoming that a man like Anthony would want him. He is a vision. He is unlike any of the other men A.Z. has ever been involved with, and they are more numerous than he is eager to admit. For a long time, he had given up on love. It’s not like it is in books. Someone does not simply come and sweep you off your feet, and whisk you away to your own personal happily-ever-after. Passion does not really make you weep. A kiss cannot truly send you to heaven.

His doorbell rings and he nearly shouts, so nervous he is. Coughing, placing his palms on his cheeks to make sure they do not burn too wildly, he approaches the door to let Anthony in. 

He’s dressed down compared to how he is at school, though still he wears a smart black sport coat and leather shoes, and his dark glasses gleam beneath the motion-sensing lights of the front porch. He’ll have to ask about those, why he chooses so to hide his yellow-brown eyes that pierce right through him.

“Anthony,” he says, soft as an exhale, and he steps back to allow him inside. From behind his back, Anthony brings out a small, feather-light bouquet of pink and white cosmos, all their petals delicate and soft. “Oh, how nice. Thank you.” 

He’s unsure what to do. Kiss him? No no, it’s far too early for that. At least, he thinks, he can be more certain of his intentions.

“I’ll...find a nice book to press them in,” he says, setting them down on the table ever-so gently.

“Oh? Thought the thing was to put them in a vase,” Anthony says.

“I would like them to last,” A.Z. says, wishing he did not sound so dreamlike. “If I dry them, I can forget which pages they are in, and it will be a nice surprise. And then you make potpourri.”

“That’s...I like that. Grew ‘em myself, so…”

A.Z. allows his eyebrows to shoot to astronomical heights, and he turns around, holding close a hardcover copy of  _ To The Lighthouse _ . 

“You garden?”

“Just a hobby.”

“How...unexpected!” He grins, adoring and endeared. What a gentle, passionate soul Anthony is. It melts him all the more, each new thing he learns about him turning him into softer and softer putty. 

“Shall we?” Anthony asks, his hands in his small pockets, looking around like he’s lost, avoiding direct eye contact as if he’ll burst into flames. He is so nonchalant. So...cool, while A.Z. feels himself shrieking inside.

“Please. I...I’ve been looking forward to this. To, er...it sounds like such a nice place.” He winces as Anthony heads back for the door.

“Oh, you’ll love it.”

He was right, last time. How does he know? How can he tell? A.Z. wonders if he’s just easy to figure out, to seduce, to charm. And, he knows, if it is just seduction, if it is all just a ploy to get him into bed, he’d not even protest. Anthony is a man too beautiful to say no to. He has wanted him for so, so long, whatever manner of having him he can grasp, he will cling to. He’s pathetic. 

Anthony leads him to a shining, black, vintage car.

“My pride and joy,” he says, running a hand over the hood as he slithers over to the driver’s side. “Hope you don’t think I’m a meathead for that.”

“Oh, I have quite a hard time thinking that about you. You’re a philosophy professor.”

“Now, now, philosophy is the most unapologetically _ masculine _ thing you can study.”

“What about Simone de Beauvoir?”

Anthony smiles as he starts the engine. 

“Got me there,” he submits, though still he’s grinning as if he loves to be proven wrong. A.Z. is glad of it; he knows he can be such a contrarian, at times to a fault. “What about your lot? You’ve got Hemingway and er...who’s that one who’s an asshole?”

“Ah, you’ll have to be more specific.”

Anthony snorts out a pleased laugh, putting the car into gear, and Aziraphale cannot still his gleeful grinning.

“Bukowski!” Anthony exclaims, stepping hard onto the gas. “That’s who I’m thinking of.”

“Oh my--”

Already he can see that they are speeding, shifting into the highest gear far too soon, weaving in and out of the dreadful traffic as a fish meanders through a stream.

“M-must you go so fast?” he cannot help but ask. He holds hard onto the leather seat.

“Habit. You’ll be fine,” he promises, looking over at him with a sincere glance. “Know what I’m doing, A.Z. I know how to handle it.”

Oh dear, he feels himself go a little hot and numb in the ears. He wonders if Anthony can possibly understand how even just his voice manages to send him spinning and reeling. He looks at his veiny hand on the shifter, how his long fingers seem to command it with the utmost ease, his thin wrist bending expertly, holding the top of the shifter, reverent and affectionate. A.Z. releases a shaky breath. He would beg to have that hand on him, were he brave enough. 

They manage to survive the trip to the bar, and Anthony mumbles for him to wait as he springs out of his seat, rounds the car, opens the door for him and extends one of those intoxicating hands for him to take.

“Oh--” A.Z. falters, overwhelmingly charmed. He takes the hand he’s offered, and stands to look upon the vintage marquis of the cocktail bar. It is surrounded by old brick, the bronze lettering deteriorating from the years. 

“Nice, isn’t it?” Anthony asks, opening the old, stained-glass door. 

“Very classic. What do you recommend I order?”

They take a seat at the bar, and A.Z. tries to still his disappointment. Friends sit side-by-side at the bar. Lovers sit across from one another at small tables with a candle between them.

“What’s your liquor? They do wonderful things with gin here, if I could make a suggestion.”

“Oh, please, yes. Gin is fine.”

Anthony snaps his fingers, beckoning the waitress, and he speaks so quickly and softly that A.Z. can barely hear what he says. She blushes, and A.Z. frowns. Perhaps Anthony just spreads his charm around, sharing it evenly, saving no special measure of it for him alone.

“So…” A.Z. mumbles lacing his fingers together in his lap.

“So…”

After an awkward silence, they laugh lightly, eyes glistening at one another’s in the dim light of the bar. Anthony has removed his sunglasses, folded them up and put them in his jacket pocket. 

“Listen--” A.Z. begins, but before he can say anything he will most certainly regret, they are given their drinks. A salmon-pink, shaken thing, poured over large cubes of ice and served in stemless wine glasses. “Oh, that’s so darling…”

“I invented it, you know. Not to brag.”

“Oh, I think you meant very much to brag.”

Anthony grins and shrugs, caught in the act.

“Ran out of proper ingredients. All we had was some juice, some gin, and some côte de provence rosé, et voila…” 

“We?” he tries to stop himself from asking. 

“Worry not,” he says, proud and satisfied. “Me and my fellow bartenders, while I was getting my PhD.”

“Oh, I see, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to sound...jealous.”

Anthony bites his bottom lip, and A.Z. knows he’s truly doomed now. He’s gone and told on himself for being infatuated.

“Nothing to be jealous of, love,” Anthony says, shielded by the rim of his glass. A.Z. follows suit, taking a generous sip to keep himself from sighing in desire. Love.  _ Love _ . His heart skips. “I’m not a...er...let’s just say I’ve not done well for myself in that department.”

“Oh?”

“Doomed to be single, but…then, you know…” He stirs the metal straw in his drink, suddenly coy. “I...shit. I like you a lot, A.Z.”

“Oh--”

Anthony takes another gulp.

“Liquid courage. Yeah, I think you’re great, and...I don’t mean to come on so strong.”

“It’s not a problem,” he says, slow and earnest, his lips parted some, his features so soft on him. “To be honest, I…” He laughs, nervous and sheepish. “I’ve...had this crush on you.” A miraculous understatement. He downs some more of his drink. “My, that sounds so childish, doesn’t it?”

Anthony shrugs, placing his chin in his hand, an elbow on the table.

“I don’t mind it,” he admits. 

They still their giddiness, their slew of confessions, and order another drink, chattering away about their classes, their students, their failed loves and their youths. All the whole their hands drift closer together across the bar, until finally the tips of their fingers do brush together, a soft but intoxicating intimacy that has A.Z. feeling quite drunk indeed. It takes great willpower for him not to lean over and press his lips to that long, thin neck.

But he abates his lust. He’s had a few drinks, and it would be unwise. Though he knows his judgment is no different when sober, still he worries that Anthony will think he’s simply riding the high of the evening.

But oh, how he wants to touch him. In the dark corners of the bar and in the leather seats of his Bentley. In his office, in the woods by the fireside. He feels so overcome with want.

They grab chips to share, their bellies so full of liquor they can’t fathom a full meal, and they sit on a riverside bench, side-by-side, looking out at the full, white moon, and occasionally at each other. Their silence is no longer awkward, no longer heavy. It is light as air, comfortable. It is full of a quiet, unspoken understanding, and once their paper boat of chips is empty and tossed, they hold hands on the rough wood of the bench, Anthony’s thumb sliding back and forth across A.Z.’s palm. 

“Love to see you again, soon. Not just in the hallway,” Anthony tells him. A.Z. squeezes his hand.

“That would be lovely, Anthony,” he says, beginning to adore the way his name sounds and tastes. It seems like, in his adoring voice, it is a dirty word. A hushed moan into a warm ear. They watch the moon move in the sky, they look at the stars and recount the many times, when they were younger men, that they laid in the grass and tried to name them. It ought to have been romantic, back then. But never before has the sky looked so beautiful. Never before has the moon shone as purely and bright.

Once they’ve sobered up some, Anthony drives him home. It’s late, and though he feels as though he could stay awake forever, soaking in his presence, they do have classes to teach in the morning. Surely his students will see the way he glows with brand new love, though he daren’t call it that. Then  _ he _ would be the one coming on too strong, moving far too fast…

At his doorstep, Anthony surrounds his cheeks with those otherworldly hands, his fingertips brushing through his soft blond hair, eyes searching his face as if asking permission. A.Z., weak and useless in the face of him, lets his shoulders slope and his lips part, and before Anthony can lean in, he grabs his lapels and pulls him in for a soft but desperate kiss.

His every fiber seems to shake, so hot and fast he wonders if he will combust. And Anthony, that sweet but ferocious man, he only makes it worse. He thrills him, even with the most innocent affection. His hands fall from his face, to his neck, down his chest, around his ribs as if he must hold him together and keep him from collapsing. Those hands, surrounding him as if he is so, so small and delicate. A.Z. tosses his arms around Anthony’s neck, pulling his lips away briefly, catching his breath, daring to make eye contact as if it will not force his knees to buckle. And, in that small reprieve, he swears he hears Anthony make a quiet, yearning growl.

The motion-sensing light turns off, bathing them in darkness as they continue to kiss, coy enough not to devour one another, even if A.Z. finds himself accosted with sinful visions of being pressed into his door, thrown into the bed. 

He finds he wants to savor it instead. It feels all teenage and new, the small kisses and the longer, deeper ones, their tongues shyly meeting as if it is for the first time. His toes curl in his shoes. He clings to Anthony’s shoulders and pulls away.

“Er...goodnight, Anthony,” he says, looking to the ground, at the space between their toes, relieved to see that he’s not gone and given away how utterly, frightfully turned on he’s made him. “Do...do come by my office tomorrow, if you’ve the time.”

“I’ll find the time,” he says, low and hoarse, breathless from their kiss. 

Their hands fall from one another, meeting briefly between them to squeeze, to bid one another goodbye, and then their fingers fall apart, and to be bereft of his touch is devastating.

Once he’s inside, the door shut behind him, he exhales, leaning against it as if he might just fall to the ground.

“Goodness…” He’s never been kissed like that, in all his years, by anyone. His ears ring with unbridled want, his heart pounds and he feels the desire bubbling in his stomach, radiating to his every limb and settling warmly between his thighs. 

He falls to bed. He can think only of him. Like a young man, like a lonesome man, he gets off alone, fighting away the visions of Anthony. How his brow might sweat when he makes love too hard, how his voice might crack when he loses himself. He tries so very hard not to whisper his name as he comes, and so fantastically does he fail.

He sleeps fitfully, unable to help but recount the thousand magical moments of the evening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (sweats profusely) 
> 
> I love writing dates. So cute. 
> 
> My life has been kinda rough over the past week or so, and all your comments have really been making me feel better and getting me through. Thank you all.


	4. Libertinism

The drive home is surreal. Though he knows that, beneath the wheels of his Bentley, the rough pavement cracks and rumbles, it feels as though he floats back to his flat as if in the air. He had almost asked, had almost begged,  _ let me come inside. I’ve got to have you _ . But, despite his manner, Anthony’s never been one to rush into bed with anyone, least not someone he knows he could love.

And he’s sure of it now. Kissing him in the darkened awning, his hands memorizing the curve of him, the weight of him, it felt like another home. A place he ought to be. And Christ, how thrilling it was. How fierce A.Z.’s affection is, even when it’s sweet and pure. Anthony gets the feeling he’ll never be the same, once they do take that step. 

He chides himself for being presumptuous, but he cannot help but imagine it. Their fingers laced together, hands pressed into a soft mattress, a sweating pile of limbs and love. 

He nearly runs over a woman crossing the street. He can hardly hear her shouting over the pounding in his ears. 

When he gets back to his dark, neat flat, he puts on a record. Finally he feels he has the right to think of A.Z. as he listens to lovesongs. _ Oh it’s such a perfect day, I’m glad I spent it with you _ ...Lou Reed lulls him to sleep.  _ You just keep me hanging on _ .

-

He strides into the classroom in the morning, travel mug in hand, and slams it triumphantly down on the desk. The students all sit bolt upright, shaking off their sleep and their hangovers, and he grins, practically posing in front of them like he’s just won an award.

“Dr. Crowley got some,” Maria says.

“Mind out the gutter, Maria,” he warns her, though he smiles through it. “Can’t I just be in a good mood?”

“It’s so unlike you.”

“Well.”

“Also I saw you out last night.”

He blinks, letting his sunglasses fall down his nose.

“Ah...did you?”

She nods.

“Don’t, er...tell anyone? Imagine that’s something we ought to go to human resources about.”

He goes on with his lesson, passionate as ever, spurred on by the promise of seeing him again, inspired by the recent memories of their hands together, their eyes locked, the sweet taste of gin on his tongue.

The day slouches by. It is agonizing, after a while. He’s ignored his mobile phone for most of it, so when finally he checks it his heart sings with glee to see a text from A.Z.

_ I haven’t stopped thinking of you. _

He gulps, overwhelmed with a sudden want and a growing adoration. He has papers to grade, lessons to plan, plants to water, but all he can think to do is climb the stairs to A.Z.’s office, wishing he had some new romantic gift to give him.

The door is propped open, and he hears talking. He’s caught in the doorway, standing there like a fool, while A.Z. speaks with some students. Ah, _ those two _ again. Their hands clasped together between their chairs, their school bags at their feet.

“Oh-- Ant-- Dr. Crowley!” he chimes, and both students turn their heads. 

“Came by to er…” He leans in the doorframe, running a hand along it, his eyes darting around for any semblance of a lie to tell. “Borrow that...book.”

“Ah, yes. I was just giving Anathema and Newton advice on their project.”

“That allowed?” Anthony asks. “Saw you two snoggin’ in the courtyard--”

Both of their faces seem to grow pale. Anathema stammers.

“It’s...it’s allowed!”

A.Z. reaches blindly for a book from his bookshelf and hands it hastily to him, not bothering to look and see that he’s just shoved a copy of  _ The School of Libertinage _ into his chest. Anathema snorts and covers her mouth. Newton grins at them, clearly amused.

“Now...on you go. _ Professor _ .” 

“Thank you,  _ Dr. Fell _ ,” he struggles to say, backing away into the hall, trying not to laugh at the look of sheer horror on his face when he realizes the kind of book he’s just lent him. He makes his escape, stifling the warmth he feels in his cheeks and ears, tucking the novel into his jacket so that no one sees.

“That must be an interesting book club,” he hears Newton say. 

“It’s-- I once taught a _ class _ on...oh dear…”

Anthony leans against the wall in the hallway, biting his lip. God, he’s adorable. Keeping the book hidden against his chest, he hurries back to his own office, his grin intractable and his giddiness so unusual. He’s not sure he’s ever felt this way. Plummeting ever downward into a bottomless pit of love, every surface he touches seeming to set him ablaze, every voice he hears, he wishes it were him. Every glance in the mirror, he imagines those soft arms curling around him, his gentle hands running through his hair. He simply  _ has  _ to text him back. 

_ Think I might have to work late. Might have to bring dinner. To the roof of the Sciences building _ .

On the roof of the Sciences building there is a secret place, old cushions and couches covered by an ugly tarp, a sanctuary that select faculty keep to themselves. He’s sure A.Z. knows of it, sure he knows how the sunset looks as if it’s from another world from up there, how the door locks from the outside and, when everyone has gone home for the day, you can flick a switch and the entire area will be illuminated by strings of fairy lights.

He’s been going up there for a while, just to be alone, throwing caution to the wind that maybe he’ll get caught. To some of his colleagues, it’s lost its appeal, it’s magic. But they’ve never been alone with A.Z. Fell, have they? They don’t know anything.

His mobile vibrates and he checks it urgently.

_ Understood. Bring the book. ;) _

He just about falls over. Isn’t he supposed to be the smooth one? He is so slithering and keenly dressed, he feels he ought to match it on the inside. But in truth, he’s a mess of nerves and infatuation. He feels like a schoolboy. He feels like an idiot. 

It will be a picnic, he decides. Champagne in plastic cups and little sandwiches in bags. He will bring his work with him as if he could ever focus on it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> idk about y'all but i always lend my professional coworkers marquis de sade's erotic novel also known as "the 120 days of sodom"
> 
> anyway (poses next to my two updates in one day)
> 
> aziraphale is so good at flirting and being naughty and crowley is just ????? wow ok im in love with you i guess


	5. Sommelierism

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some mild nsfw in this
> 
> also check the end notes for my playlist/music recs

A.Z. reaches the rooftop door as the sun begins to hug the horizon, dyeing the sky that beloved deep red-orange, the color of that hair he longs so much to smell, to run his fingers through. To leave knotted and askew after a night of sweet but raucous love. He closes the door, unsure if he should lock it, wondering if Anthony has already arrived, and soon he is grabbed by the hand, pulled into his arms, kissed as if returning from a long and dangerous war. He reaches back, blind, groping to turn the deadbolt that will seal them off from the rest of the world.

“Oh, Anthony…” he sighs, looking over his stark and skinny shoulder to see the lounge, all illuminated with yellow-white lights and candled nearly burned down to their wick. In the center of the chairs and couches, there is a wide quilt, spread evenly, with a basket and silver bucket full of bottles holding down the corner. His heart swells, throbbing hard against his ribs, and he holds Anthony’s hands to his chest. “It’s beautiful.”

“Hoped so,” he says, leaning down to kiss his cheek. It is all happening so fast, this romance, this storybook setting. Too good to be true, and yet it is true. He  _ does _ hold those hands in his, he  _ does _ look into those golden eyes as they absorb him. He is led by the arm to the picnic blanket, and he sits down on the soft, downy surface. Hand-sewn. He wonders by whom. It has an old scent, though still it’s clean. Musty but well cared-for. 

Grinning, Anthony whips out a pocket knife and uses it to uncork a bottle of champagne. The cork flies freely across the roof, and A.Z. wonders if it will land amongst its brethren. He wonders how many romantic nights there have been in this place, how many secret kisses and adoring gazes. Hopefully none that involved Anthony, but he reminds himself he hasn’t the right to be possessive. He hasn’t the right to covet those hands that pour the champagne.

But he cannot help it. He wants them on him, in him, all over him. He bites his lip as he’s handed his drink in its clear plastic cup.

“Cheers,” Anthony says, gently tapping the drinks together, faltering when they almost spill, so flimsy are their cups. They laugh, coy and sweet, and A.Z. is eager to take a sip. It tastes expensive, and the bubbles delight his throat as he swallows. 

“Sorry about earlier,” A.Z. tells him, looking across the blanket and seeing that the Marquis De Sade novel is looming eerily in the corner. 

“S’fine,” Anthony says, sipping his champagne, leaning back on one arm, looking over at him with a grateful smile on his face. Dark red eyebrows stitched together, gazing almost sadly. It makes his heart ache. 

From the basket he brings out a plate of fruit. All of it ripe and plump, clusters of grapes and thickly sliced, fresh peaches that melt in their mouths. Between bites, they kiss, they talk, they joke.

“Tell me more about you, Anthony,” he pleads, crossing his legs, leaning his chin in one hand as he looks on, admiring the sight of him in the glimmer of the fairy lights. “You’ve always been so mysterious to me.”

It seems to fluster him, and A.Z. feels a hint of pride.

“Typical stuff. Troubled youth. Turned it around.”

“That’s very noble of you.”

Anthony shrugs and refills their cups, his servings generous and his method expert. How many bottles of wine has he poured with perfect hands, sending amorous couples into a romantic evening spurred on by drink? 

“And you? I assume you’ve always been this way?”

“...what way is that?”

“Oh, you know…” Anthony’s fingers trail along the quilt, meandering onto A.Z. knee. “Angelic.”

“Oh dear…”

Anthony sits up, coming in close, an arm stretched behind A.Z.’s back, palm flat on the quilt, their noses nearly touching. With his other hand, he runs his fingers down A.Z.’s cheek, looking at his lips, tempting him so boldly. His appeal is unrelenting. It cuts him to the very core, it splits him in half at the seams and the pain is so, so welcome. This man will destroy him. He will let it happen.

His head light with champagne, he smiles into a soft, sweet kiss. They forget their drinks, their food, opting instead to tumble to the quilt, arms around one another, clinging tight and desperate, A.Z. on his back with Anthony fitting so neatly above him. Legs entwined, hands in one another’s hair. The elation seems a bit like magic, the numb but fiery feeling in his fingertips like an ascension to another manner of being. Angelic, indeed. They are closer to heaven up here, if he were to believe in that sort of thing, and sincerely. Maybe it’s not a place. Maybe you don’t have to die to get there.

He inhales, sharp and surprised, when Anthony tugs at one side of his bowtie, unraveling it into disarray, freeing his tingling neck from its grasp. He undoes the top button, burying his lips and his nose against his throat. There he stays a while, kissing softly up to his jaw, and back down, and up again, while A.Z. hands tremble on his back, trying so hard not to dig his fingers in and beg. One must be prudent. 

Anyone who has ever advised a man to be patient and reasonable at the start of a relationship has clearly not been kissed by Dr. Anthony Crowley. They do not know how he thrills, how he turns one’s blood to boiling and their mind to a black void filled only with his name. They cannot possibly understand the way it feels to have him unbutton your dress shirt, kiss down your chest, mumble to you under his breath.

He echoes him, pulling at the hem of that tight gray shirt and urging it up his chest, pulling at the lapels of his jacket and tossing it to the side once he’s freed. Skin-to-skin, he shivers. He has never loved his body. He is too soft and unremarkable, but the way Anthony seems to revere every inch of his skin makes him feel like some pillar of perfection in the shape of a man. His breath is heavy, and he’s hard, hot, with an inkling to whine and plead.

He places his hands on Anthony’s hips. He’s so very thin, but never fragile. Daring to be the courageous one, he pushes on those hips, turning them, urging Anthony onto his back instead. The look on his face is so darling, so surprised, as if he could never have expected what they both know is coming. A.Z. is certain he can read it plain as day on his face by the way his eyes glisten and he licks his bottom lip. Anthony gulps and blinks, and it makes him grin ear-to-ear, overjoyed and overcome with want, using his deft fingers to slip his black leather belt off, to work open that tight and stubborn button-fly.

Nothing makes him squirm like this. That feeling, your mouth full of the proof of a man’s desire, the sounds he makes when you show him just how good you are. And he wastes no time being shy about it; he is incapable of making Anthony wait to be given the full potential of pleasure.

“Ugh…” he groans, his hands falling into A.Z.’s hair, gripping just-so. “You’re an angel…”

He is so sweet, even when he’s lewd, even though his voice is like a snake’s hiss and he’s got his cock in someone’s mouth...He’s marvelous. He holds A.Z.’s hand where it lays on his hip, and he cannot help but make a pleased and happy sound. Anthony shivers at the humming against his skin.

And when it’s over, and quite an end it is, he swallows as if appraising the finest champagne. 

Anthony lay panting on the blanket as he dabs at the corners of his mouth with his undone bowtie, as he pours them both some more to drink.

“God…” Anthony sighs, his limbs spread, helpless and in such a weakened state. “Come on, come here…”

A.Z. obliges, setting aside their drinks and laying beside him, beneath the curve of his arm, a hand pressed to the center of his chest. He takes his first deep breath in a while, and looks up at the glistening sky. This is how it is supposed to feel, to stargaze. Listening to a lover’s heart, reeling from his taste. 

“Can I er...do you want to…?” Anthony asks, his ecstasy rendering him a little bit stupider. A.Z. laughs gently, kisses his cheek, and then settles back onto his chest.

“I’m alright, dear. I just...wanted to do that for you.” Needed to, deep in his soul like a compulsion, more like. “Was it alright?”

Anthony cackles, clearly full of disbelief. A.Z. knows he needn’t ask; it is just so hard for him to resist being smug. Anthony kisses his feathery-blond head.

“It was perfect, angel. You’re...I mean, wow…” 

A.Z. hides his proud grinning in Anthony’s neck.

“Angel...I like that rather a lot.”

“Good…” He curls his other arm around him, and they lay on the quilt for a while, until their champagne goes warm. Their picnic lasts into the start of the morning, and when they must part ways it is like tearing off one’s own limb.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i need to lay down
> 
> anyway here's my playlist for the husbands, i highly recommend all of these songs:
> 
> “Driving in the Dark” by Saves the Day  
“Get In My Car” by BRONCHO (my fave band currently, they have big crowley energy)  
“Be My Angel” by Mazzy Star  
“Green Eyes” by Wavves  
“I Feel Extra-Natural” by LVL UP  
“River” by Akron/Family  
“Grapevine Fires” by Death Cab for Cutie  
“Pale Blue Eyes” by The Velvet Underground  
“Head On” by Pixies (Jesus and Mary Chain cover)  
“Oh To Be in Love” by Kate Bush
> 
> EDIT: you can find me on twitter @peebnutbutter (fandom account, main account listed in bio)


	6. Criticism

It goes on like paradise for a few weeks. The secret meetings, the time spent on their knees, the sharing of wine and the million sweet kisses to fill their every silence. Each time, they stop short of making love, as if they stand on the edge of a precipice that overlooks something from which they can never return. It is just too risky to be in love, Anthony tells himself. He finds the situation delicate, even if they adore one another with such ease. He is afraid. He is enamored. He is turned on all the time, buzzing like a neon sign in the dark.

So far they haven’t told anyone. Even from their intuitive students, they keep this secret, going on acting as if nothing has changed and they are not sharing an intoxicating happiness they feel is only their own. Surely no one could love like they do. 

It is hardest when they must be in the same room, but not alone. At work events, student gatherings they’ve been assigned to supervise. Anthony is incensed to see that he absolutely must attend the poetry slam. Not only does he find it annoying, but he knows A.Z. will be there to support his pupils, and that they will not be able to touch and kiss or even make eyes across the room, burning through it with want, making it so obvious to everyone around them.

He sits in the back with a glass of cabernet held loosely in his fingers as Ms. Device takes the stage. Her poems sound like hexes, incantations. He wishes he could hate it, but she’s quite good. And there, in the front row, is A.Z., gazing up at her with a pride almost paternal, his hands clasped together on his chest in delight. He’s pure. He’s truly an angel, even when he sins with such enthusiasm.

And so skillfully, too. It makes Anthony want to weep, the things he does.

He watches him applaud her work, and he smiles at him in admiration, allowing himself the momentary freedom to look as truly enthralled as he is. Allowing himself to sigh, to bite his lip, to think of going over to him, stealing the show with a dramatic kiss, whisking him away to bed. Maybe forever.

Just then, Maria appears at his side, nudging him in the arm with her elbow.

“Didn’t know you liked poetry,” she teases.

“I don’t. Had to be here.”

“Hm.” He knows she doesn’t believe him, but she has no reason to rat him out. “So...you know I work as an assistant for the Dean, right?” she asks, gazing into her drink as if it holds some answer.

“Yeah, what of it?”

“Er...people have been...talking.”

He furrows his brow at her, upturning his palm, pleading with her to get to the point.

“About you and...you know, him.” 

“We’ve been very careful…” He is sure to whisper and lean toward her, his eyes darting about to make sure no one sees the concern on his face. 

“Well, no one’s caught you. But word gets around, you know, about how you...look at each other.”

“How we  _ look _ at each other?”

“Oh, don’t play dumb, loverboy.”

He frowns, and for a moment, toys with the idea of giving her some extra reading to do. But she is only trying to help.

“Does the Dean know?”

“Don’t think so. N’ you’d better pray he doesn’t find out.”

“I don’t pray.”

“Well, whatever. He’s...not very tolerant.”

“Eh?”

She purses her lips and lets her shoulders drop. He understands.

“You ought to go through the proper channels, if you two are really going to be a  _ thing _ . In the long term.”

He looks out across the dispersing crowd. A.Z. is congratulating Ms. Device on her performance, and the twinkle in his eye is most endearing.

“I hope so.” He places a hand very briefly on Maria’s shoulder and then gently shoves her on her way. “Thanks for the tip.”

The auditorium clears out, and it is just the two of them, standing across the wide, dark room, softly waving, the gravity between them strong enough to crush. It pulls them close together, and they clasp hands.

“My angel--”

“Darling--”

“We need to talk,” Anthony says, despising himself. That string of words usually means only one terrible, heartbreaking thing, and he knows for sure because of the devastated look on A.Z.’s face. “Oh, no, it’s not that, love. Sit down.”

They sit in the theater seats, next to one another, looking at the stage as if there’s a performance on.

“People are onto us, angel,” he says furtively, ears piqued to listen for the opening of a swinging door.

“So soon? Oh dear…”

“We’ve got to come forward about it. Tell H.R. Apparently Dean Sandalphon is a bit of a--”

“Bigot? Yes, I know. You should have seen his face when they gave me tenure. What a miserable man.”

“Really?” Anthony asks, exasperated, turning toward him. “I mean, I have  _ always _ wanted to punch that guy, but now that I know he gave you shit, just for…”

“It is fine, dear. Been dealing with it most of my life.”

“It’s _ not _ fine,” he says, with such finality. “Half the student body here is as gay as the night is long, angel, he can’t let it effect his leadership. Asshole.”

A.Z. smiles, apparently charmed by his candor and his anger, his defensiveness. Anthony wants him to feel that safety, that assurance. No one will hurt him.

“Well, I suppose there will be paperwork,” A.Z. laments, though he reaches for Anthony’s hand and squeezes. “For you, dear, I will not complain.” Anthony smiles, all teeth, a devious grin like some predator ready to pounce.

“You drive me mad,” he says, leaning into him, kissing his cheek so chastely as if he does not have sinful thoughts. “Let’s get out of here, eh? H.R. is closed anyway…”

Before he can answer, he kisses him. It is the sort of kiss that ought to be on the stage before them, so perfect it is. The kind of kiss you see in movies, the ones that make you feel weak in the knees to watch. And let them watch, he thinks. Once it’s all out in the open the Dean can’t do a damn thing about it.

A.Z., ever more daring than he seems, stands up, holding onto Anthony’s hand, bidding him to follow. They walk, clumsy as if drunk, up the side steps to the stage and behind the curtain, into the wings where it is dark and full of velvet. Mirrors and makeup and lightbulbs and costumes, all idle and without actors to wear them. It is uncanny, almost surreal, to be back there when it is so quiet. A.Z. lifts himself up onto an aging white vanity, the paint cracking on its surface, and pulls Anthony by the tie, bringing him between his knees.

“One last time, in secret,” he says, so quiet, their lips close, their breath warm. Those daring words set Anthony spinning, and he is quick to kiss him, embrace him, tilt his hips into him where he sits on the edge of the vanity. He shakes with his neediness. To have him, right here, right now, backstage surrounded by all this odd decoration and old dust...wouldn’t that be just perfect for his darling bibliophile? A tryst in the wings of The Globe. Forbidden and earth-shattering.

He has never wanted him more. It reaches its peak, after all those months of pining and dreaming, and he feels dizzy with love, throbbing with an unholy need to tear into him, all teeth and claws and lips. To fuck, nay, to make love, in this strange and beautiful place. To tell him in so many whispers that he has his entire heart and nothing less.

Just as he gets his hands beneath the collar of his pale-blue shirt, he hears a door creak open. Lost in love, he looks toward the sudden beam of light in a libidinal and dreamy fog, knowing their position is compromising, know he’s stiff against his lover’s thigh, knowing that, no matter who it is who sees them, they’re utterly fucked. A.Z. tightens his grip on his jacket, desperate for safety, and looks to the door. A thin shadow appears, and then a familiar body walks backstage. It is only Maria, and she looks so very worried.

“Y-you see, sir…” she stammers, her eyes wide on the pair of them, shaking her head, trying to communicate. Behind her there comes someone less endeared. An oaf of a man, miserable and sniveling, his hands folded behind his back as he inspects the area. Crowley steps away from A.Z., leaning down, hands in his pockets to so fruitlessly try to hide his excitement, and A.Z. crosses his legs like a Victorian Lady of the gentry. “The theater is...in desperate need of repair…” she croaks, tearful. Sandalphon looks at both of them, sneering and accusatory, with an unmistakable look of shock and disgust on his face.

Maria looks to them, desperate, and mouths a tragic  _ I’m sorry _ , but then the Dean pushes past her and narrows his eyes at them.

“You gentlemen can expect an email from me.”

The door slams behind him, and Maria stands shaking in the dark.

“What in the  _ fuck _ did you do?” Anthony asks, striding toward her, all arousal fleeing from his body.

“Anthony, please, she--” A.Z. tries to interupt.

“I didn’t mean to! I’m sorry, Dr. Crowley, he…” 

“He what?”

“He stopped me in the hall. He’d been at the poetry slam, I guess, in the back, and...he started asking me about the auditorium, you know, I was in  _ Winter’s Tale  _ last year, and--”

“Out with it!”

“He wouldn’t take no for an answer, Professor. I had hoped you wouldn’t be back there, I promise…”

His angel forgives her without question. He places a kind hand on her shoulder, bidding her to leave, to save herself from Anthony’s wrath. She mumbles another apology and shuffles out the door.

“Fuck!” Anthony says, kicking aimlessly at the heavy curtain. “Ugh…” He covers his face with one hand, massaging the bridge of his nose.

“It’s...it’s alright, dear,” A.Z. promises, gathering him up in his arms, trying to calm him. He runs soft hands down his back, soothing him like a pet all riled up, and he sighs, putting more of his weight into the embrace. “He is a bigot, but maybe he’s reasonable--”

“Fuckssake, angel, you can’t be both…”

“...I know.”

The hold one another in the silence. They go home alone. Anthony drinks himself to sleep, cursing Sandalphon with every sip. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sandalphon did not say gay rights
> 
> remember how, in the show, aziraphale was like "oh, you the bitch who punished people at sodom and gomorrah, hm, well guess what--"
> 
> anyway everything will be fine and i guess i was in a very writey mood today??? yeet
> 
> of late i've been using fanfic as my reward for getting work done on my non-fandom projects and i've found it to be a really good motivator
> 
> hdsadjfhs i hope this is good i always feel like i have no idea wtf im doing


	7. Puritanism

It is a feeling so unfamiliar to him, standing outside of the Dean’s office, awaiting punishment. He has always been well-behaved. Obedient, as if to make up for the stormy soul he wishes he didn’t have. Keeping himself tolerable. And now he’s rebelled so sweetly, and it will be over before it truly began. Anthony joins him, leaning against the wall on the other side of the doorframe, and he sighs.

“Ready?” he asks.

“Hardly. But we don’t have much of a choice.”

The door creaks open and they turn to look. It’s Gabriel, the stickler head of Human Resources, a snide smile on his face as he motions for them to come in. Sandalphon sits behind his desk, fingers laced on his belly like some action movie villain. A.Z. hates those films. The guy always gets his girl, and the world is saved. Heteronormative, of course, but moreover just so unrealistic. 

“Sit down, gentlemen,” the Dean bids. They take their seats in the old chairs before his desk, and Gabriel perches on the low window sill, a clipboard held on his lap. “I am sure you know that I hold my faculty to a very high moral standard.”

They nod. Even Anthony, always so quick to voice how indignant he feels, stays quiet for now.

“So you can imagine my shock, my... _ disgust—“ _

Gabriel coughs, and A.Z. understands why he’s at this meeting. It’s to keep Sandalphon from having a discrimination lawsuit on his hands.

“We discourage faculty members to form relationships of...this nature.” He gestures at them with one clammy hand. “And, if they cannot help themselves, they are required to disclose this information with me, and with Gabriel, and a faculty-wide memo will be sent out. You have blatantly  _ ignored _ this rule.”

He lets that land for a moment. A.Z. keeps his eyes fixed on the desk, forcing himself not to look over at Anthony. How angry he must be, how full of passion his eyes...it will not help their case for him to show the love in his gaze, the desire. Anthony squirms in his seat, abandoning any semblance of a professional posture, and leans back, appraising the Dean with a discerning eye.

“Get to the point,” he urges. His voice is grim. A.Z. can feel his heart collapsing.

“It’s over,” Sandalphon says. “Or you’ll both be relieved of your positions.”

“You—“

“Mr. Sandalphon,” A.Z. begins, interrupting Anthony before he can make a scene. “Might we just...fill out the paperwork retroactively? We’ve only been...together a few weeks.” He notices how the Dean grimaces, and he relishes in the idea that he’s forced him to think about it.

“Rules are rules, gentlemen. Now leave my office.”

Anthony’s knuckles are white on the armrests of his chair, and before he stands, he smacks one palm down on the wood, channeling all that anger into a flourish of an exit. He strides out, throwing the door open recklessly, and A.Z. hears him disappear down the hall.

“Well. Good day to you,” he mumbles, gathering himself, walking out into the hall, Anthony nowhere in sight. It is for the best that he doesn’t look upon him, for the want will be too strong. Surely no man is worth ruining his career over. Surely Anthony would agree that their profession is much too dignified to risk…

He exhales shakily, bidding himself not to weep, and he leans lightly against the wall, his features tight and restrained, and then Gabriel exits the office, jumping a little to see that he’s still there.

“Dr. Fell…”

“Don’t offer me any platitudes, Gabriel. Plenty of fish in the sea, and whatnot.”

Gabriel frowns, his plans foiled.

“Look, Dr. Fell, my hands are tied here. If we ignore the rules you broke it sets a precedent—“

“Of what? More people loving one another?” His voice is so tearful but accusatory.

“Whoa, whoa, no one said anything about  _ love _ ,” he says, shaking his head. “It’s mostly about, uh…”

“Sex? Goodness you are the most prudish man I think I’ve ever met.” He sniffs, sucking up any tears he holds behind his eyes, and begins to walk away. “You...you are just as bad as the Dean! What  _ year _ do you people live in? For God’s sake…” He takes a steadying breath, knowing that if he yells and shouts and raises hell, it will only be worse. “...we were friends once, Gabriel.”

He doesn’t wait for a response. He walks down the hall, to the door, across the field without looking up, and he goes to his office to drown in work.

-

He arrives in his transnational literature class the next day looking quite tired, bags beneath his eyes and his outfit less-than perfectly neat. Anathema can tell. She can always tell.

“Did something happen, Professor?” she asks, sitting up straight, glancing over at Newton for backup.

“Ah…” A.Z. says, slumping down into the seat behind the desk, in no mood for his usual pacing lecture, passionate and involved. “Do you think there is still merit in the happy ending?”

The class is silent for a long, heavy moment. Newton raises his hand eventually, and A.Z. nods to call on him.

“I rather like happy endings.”

“Me too,” Anathema says. “A story doesn’t have to be entirely sad in order to be good. It’s sad, and then the plot resolves, but the sad thing still happened, so a lesson was learned. That’s the whole point.”

A.Z. nods, noncommittal and unenthused.

“You’ll have to forgive me, dear students. I’ve just recently had a very unhappy ending.”

He opens his bag, searching for the book they’re studying, fumbling about between the canvas flaps until he finds  _ The Waste Land and Other Poems. _ He opens it, searching for the proper page, and from the book there falls a little dried-up flower. Petals once soft and lush, now shriveled and retaining only the sweet smell. He sighs and shuts his eyes.

“Sweet man…” he mumbles.

“Pardon me, Professor,” Newton says. “But do you...wish to talk about it?”

A.Z. looks up from the flower that disintegrates upon the desk.

“I’m afraid it would be...inappropriate, Mr. Pulsifer. Though you are very kind to ask.”

Anathema cannot contain a proud smile, and she looks at Newton with a sort of reserved giddiness. Lucky young lovers who have not yet learned that the world is cruel, who will have the chance to love and be loved, and go on loving. Usually, such a wondrous sight would make him happy. But he can only think of what cannot be.

After class, on the walk back to his office, he runs into Maria, who looks almost as run-down as he does.

“Professor Fell…” she mumbles, looking up at him as if he might lambaste her for what happened.

“Maria, you must know I hold no ill will against you.”

“I appreciate that, but…” She sniffs and hooks her thumbs beneath the straps of her backpack. “God, I’m just so angry. I should have told him to fuck off.”

“Now, Maria…”

“I’m gonna make it right, Professor, I promise.”

“You really needn’t—“

“No. I have to. I’d...be a bit of a hypocrite, wouldn’t I?”

A.Z. is about to ask why, but then Maria is approached by a spirited girl in a floral dress, who slips her hand in hers. Maria smiles coyly.

“I’ve got to go, Professor. I’ll...I’ll think of something.”

He is too heartbroken to protest. He is too in love to tell her there is nothing she can do. His chest aches, and he longs to lay his head upon the shoulder of the only one who can fix him. For Anthony, he is willing to let her try.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me @ sandalphon: you got a storm comin
> 
> I know that I’m....I’m the one in control of the story but I’m still like “this is so sad Crowley play despcito” asjddjjdjhf


	8. Anarchism

Out on the quad, they sit in a vague circle as if they’re going to summon a demon. They very well might, considering the ruckus they’re about to cause. That, and she does know how to make a  _ real  _ summoning circle, but this is not like that at all. Her hand lays tenderly on Newton’s in the grass, and they listen as Maria tells them her debacle. It’s a sad story, and all of the puzzle pieces seem to finally fit together. Professor Fell and his tragic sighing, the talks he had outside with Professor Crowley, the flowers in his book. Now knowing a sweet, true love for herself, Anathema finds herself full of heartache for her dear professor. 

“So what are we going to do about it?” she asks, ever-frank.

“I thought...well…” Maria coughs, and her confidence is soon steadied by her girlfriend’s hand on her shoulder. “Students used to do this big protests. Walk-out, sit-ins, that sort of thing. Thought we could pull something like that on the Dean.”

Anathema puts her fingers to her chin, considering it.

“Does that work?” Newton asks, pulling his knees to his chest.

“Dunno. But it’s  _ something _ . I was thinking like...a kiss-in.”

Newton blushes then, and Anathema stills her adoring smile. He’s so very cute…

“And do you think professor Crowley and professor Fell will be okay with us doing that for them? I don’t want to make things worse or get them fired,” Anathema posits, looking up at the window that she knows belongs to Dr. Fell’s office. The blinds are shut. He usually likes to look outside and admire the landscape, or admire Dr. Crowley’s outdoor lectures. The poor man…

“We can make it clear they’ve nothing to do with it,” Maria assures her. “And it’s...it’s not just them, you know? He’s got all those passive-aggressive emails about  _ appropriate conduct _ on campus, but he lets you lot snog in broad daylight.”

Newton nearly spits out his soda, and Anathema belts out a hearty laugh.

“We the heteros?” she asks.

“The very same.”

They leave their circle, heading instead for Anathema’s dormitory for further planning, contacting their friends who might like to help. What a lovely distraction from all the homework she has. 

-

He’s lounging in his office chair, the padded, gilded one in his lonely flat. Laying across it like a lady of the evening, a glass of red wine in his hand, a soft, sheer, black robe hanging on his body like crawling vines. He’s not bothered to get much more dressed than that, just his jet black boxer briefs and tank top, wilting in the cool air, having taken a day off. Well, two days off. Going on three if he feels like it.

He ashamed of himself, really, for reacting so poorly. He’s a grown man, after all, not some lovesick teen on the brink of collapse. But A.Z…Anthony knows that, if he’d let it happen, he would have become his whole world. He foolishly dabbles with the idea of giving up his career just to be with him, free of scorn, free of rules...but he knows he’d never go for that. 

And he loves his job. He loves A.Z., yes, more than anything and with such might his heart could stop, but he loves his job. Loves teaching and the sound of his own voice. Loves Neitzsche and Kant and Voltaire and even the newer, shitty ones. 

He groans and sips his drink. It’s a little early, but time doesn’t really matter when you’re not at work, and you’ve no dates to keep, and nothing to really look forward to but sleeping.

And what hurts the very most is the wondering. Wondering if, across town, A.Z. is nowhere near as heartbroken. Maybe he’s doing just fine. Maybe it was never that big of a deal and this whole depressive, drunken episode is just another of his dramatic overreactions. 

So be it. That’s just his style.

He hears a knocking on the door and he groans. There’s no way he’s ordered food and forgotten; he’s not had an appetite in the slightest, and his body runs on scraps and booze. But still, he slides out of his chair and ambles slowly, lazily toward the door, glass of wine in hand. He looks a mess, even in his elegance. Doesn’t matter. There’s no one to bother looking good for.

He opens the door, ready with a snide speech to turn them away, squinting against the bright outdoors, and indeed is he blinded by a beacon of light. Of joy. An angel in a three-piece suit and heaven in the shape of a man.

“A.Z.—“ he stammers, nearly dropping his drink.

“...May I come in?” he asks, too polite.  _ May  _ he? What the hell kind of a question is that? 

“Please. Yes, Angel, come in.” He grabs him, firm but gentle, by the arm and pulls him inside, swiftly shutting the door behind them. Unable to help himself, unable to stop it, he kisses him, no doubt tasting of sleep and wine and tears, but with so much stupid joy. 

“Anthony…” he stills him, placing hands on his chest. “Please, let me say what I’ve come to say…”

Anthony crumbles a bit, his shoulders sloping, and he beckons A.Z. to the couch to sit.

“I’ll stand,” he insists, wringing his hands as Anthony flops down onto the cushions. “If I sit beside you, I…” He gulps. “I’ll be tempted to change my mind.”

Anthony’s chest feels heavy. 

“Go on then…”

“I just wanted to say, before it’s over, I...well, it  _ is _ over, isn’t it? Sandalphon made sure of that.”

“He’s a knob…”

“You’ll get no argument from me. Er…” He seems to flutter nervously like a moth drawn to a light that will surely kill it. “I just wanted to say that...I never want you to doubt that I loved you. Well,  _ love _ you, really. Can’t exactly stop that yet…” 

Anthony sits, wide-eyed, jaw hanging open, too worn down to respond in any coherent way. His mind is all a storm of anger and desire and tender affections.

“Even if...even if we mustn’t be together, Anthony, it was important to me that you know how much I…” His voice wavers, and he chews on his lip. “Oh, dear I just...I can’t do this, Anthony…” He takes a sharp breath and covers his eyes with a hand, the other clinging tightly to his vest. “It’s so cruel, isn’t it?” He hiccups to keep a sob in.

“Angel,” Anthony breathes, the pet name like a spell on his tongue, and he stands and strides so swiftly to him, wrapping him up in his arms, cradling him close. “Sweet love…” He kisses his crown, his voice so quiet.

“I’m so sorry, darling,” A.Z. mumbles, so tearful. “I can’t do what I ought to do. You’ve...you’ve made me a fool, Anthony.” 

Anthony smiles a little, though too sorrowful to laugh.

“Likewise, Angel.” He holds him close, gently turning like a slow dance, resting his chin atop his head. “I love you like mad, isn’t that foolish?”

“Very stupid indeed,” A.Z. says, but there is a merciful note of cheer in his voice. “What are we to do?” he asks, pulling just a little bit away, resting his hands on Anthony’s nearly bare chest, looking up at him as if he could possibly have an answer.

“I don’t know…” He doesn’t know a god damn thing except for a painful, devastating love that drives him to such insanity. “Let’s think about it later,” he proposes, diving down slow for a kiss, gentle this time, as if asking for permission. And his angel does melt into his arms, weak and whining against his lips.

“You’ve been drinking, my dear,” A.Z. says.

“I’m sober as a...whatever it is, can’t think of it now,” he laughs, too overcome to give it any more effort. Indeed he feels no alcohol in his blood, so sobering is his lover’s sudden presence and sweet confession. “Just love me for today. Tomorrow we can follow the rules.”

“How am I supposed to follow rules with you around, my dear?” A.Z. asks, and there is no conceivable way he doesn’t know what it does to him, how it makes him pine all the more, feeling that fire burn from his toes to his temples. “How am I supposed to behave?”

Anthony grins, the smile he has been saving for his darling angel, the one with so much sinful sincerity in it that it almost pains him. God, how he wants him, in whatever way he can. However he will have him, for however long. An eternity, maybe. Ignoring the world and how it dictates to them, thinking only if his skin and sweat and voice. 

“Don’t,” he begs him softly. “Don’t behave, or behave very badly…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I only want two things in this world:
> 
> -A gay revolution
> 
> -Crowley in a lacy black robe drinking wine because ladies’ lounge wear is his therapy
> 
> Coming up next whenever I have the time and a private place to write it: some home of sexual intercourse


	9. Eroticism

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nsfw ahead

He is pliable. He swings on the hinge of his lover, who drags him to the open bedroom door. Stepping through it, A.Z. feels as if he cannot ever turn around. Beyond this door there is another world. The second part of the world, the era marked by Anthony, beginning with such soft touches to his blushing cheeks. They smile as they walk, in a trance, until his legs feel the soft respite of a mattress behind them and he allows himself to fall, cradled by thin arms as if the impact could hurt. 

Nothing can hurt him. Even if it does, even if he’s scratched and bitten, mauled with love, he will grin all the while. He smiles at the adventurous trail of sloppy kisses down his neck, gleefully enveloping Anthony in his arms, tight and suffocating, like a predacious snake. He, too, showers him with affection, kisses all over his hair and forehead, catching his ear between his lips, softly humming the needy whine of someone bereft of true joy for so, so long. Like an injured dog, he whimpers beneath him. He is useless and ascending, and thrilled to know that it has only just begun. There are hours left for them to fill. 

Anthony growls soft  _ I love yous _ into the wrinkles he forms in his clothes, disheveled and soon discarded, parted, inched off of his shoulders. He is undressed slow, methodical, his skin admired and studied, thin hands all over him, yellow-brown eyes burning to look upon the sight. 

He is soon marred with the sweetest little marks, skin reddened in the shape of a kiss. And again, it is painless even as it stings.

He busies himself, splaying his fingers beneath Anthony’s clothes, lifting the fabric to reveal how taut, how skinny, how perfect. Those arms, so thin but strong, they surround him like a cage, Anthony hovering above him, taking a moment to look at all the damage he’s done, all the mess he’s made. He smiles a devilish smile and tilts his hips into A.Z.’s, a taunt that makes him groan right out loud. He is aware, all of a sudden, of how they are both stiff against one another, rutting through their clothes like younger men who might fumble. 

For a while they kiss, they rock, sighing into one another’s mouths, hands traveling but never staying in one place for long, until A.Z. makes the bold decision to strap both hands on Anthony’s bottom, claiming it with a squeeze, pulling him closer, impossibly close, enough for their bones to ache. Anthony shivers, his breath a shaky chill, and A.Z. watches as his eyes seem to roll back in his head, how his eyelids flutter open and closed and open again, casting him a glance of desperate begging. It is as if he is being tortured, his sweet love. And indeed he is restrained. He struggles against his tight black underwear, and A.Z. is quick to slide his hand beneath the elastic.

“Angel…” Anthony bellows, twitching against his hand, biting his lip as those soft, expert fingers surround him. 

“Dear?” he asks, breathless but pretending not to know how he drives him mad. How he teases him, grasping tighter onto him, a gentle bend of his wrist, pumping coyly at first. He gazes into his eyes as he squirms above him, adoring how he sweats, adoring that satisfying, hefty, hot feeling of having him at his mercy and in his hand. 

“I love you,” he mumbles, each time like the first time, and A.Z. dissolves into a gentle laugh.

“I love  _ you, _ darling,” he says, forgetting himself. Forgetting there is a world outside of this steamy bedroom, that there are men aside from Anthony, who are cruel and do not love him. There are no streets full of scorning eyes, no hurdles over which they must jump. There is only this. The universe is the size of a room with four walls. It is filled with the sound of moaning and the creaking of a mattress. Its surface is black silk. An ocean of eros beneath their bodies. He drowns.

Not to be outdone, Anthony makes his daring move. He grabs the waist of A.Z.’s trousers and tugs, down, farther still, over his knees and ankles, kissing down his soft legs all the way. He discards them out into the void, the mote that surrounds them. Stretching, cat-like, he nuzzles his face against the suffering bulge in his clean-white underwear, and A.Z. trembles beneath that playful affection. He knows his heart, knows he wants to take hours here, dallying with every place to touch and taste until they have left no stone unturned, no pleasure unfelt, but he aches so badly to  _ know _ him. To strip him bare and see him in full…

“Come back,” he pleads, curling his fingers into Anthony’s shoulders, bidding him to climb back up, nose-to-nose, and he settles his hands on his hips. “Take these off.” It is a gentle command as much as it is a desperate plea as if from the lips of someone begging for mercy. _ Please, _ he thinks to say,  _ let me have you before I cease to exist _ . Anthony is clearly in no mood to deny him whatever he asks for, no matter how lewd, no matter how rushed, because he boyishly nods and begins to scramble out of his boxer-briefs with the utmost urgency. And up there, straddling him, bare as Eden, it is a sight so beautiful A.Z. fears he might cry. His lover’s tan skin, his red hair, the slim curve of him like so many painted models. And he is hard as stone and weeping to begin, and A.Z. licks his lips. So delicious is his love. “You’re a vision, Anthony…” He slides one hand up his thigh, eyes trailing every delightful inch, palming again at the base of his cock with his fingers curling over it. “M...may I…?”

This is where there is always a hiccup. To love other men is to be forced to communicate, and it is never easy. They always seem to dance around the words to use, afraid to be frank and simply ask:  _ will you be inside of me? Will I be inside of you? And how soft, how hard? How much will you hurt? _ But it proves so simple, with Anthony. Before A.Z. can truly form the question, he’s nodding, eager and willing, pulling him out of his underwear to run his long, thin fingers down his prize. And yes, he looks at it with so much triumph and pride, and he makes so hungry a noise A.Z. swears he feels the subtle rolling wave of orgasm welling up inside of him.

But not yet,  _ not yet- _ \- he must still himself for the sake of knowing. 

Dizzy, stumbling, Anthony clambers over to the bedside table and throws the top drawer open. From it he brings the most endearing little bottle: black glass with a perfume cap for a top. Ever-so Anthony, ever-so stylish. Bespoke and unique, and he opens it with a subtle gasp, as if every single motion oozes with sex.

He takes A.Z.’s hand, brings it first to his lips to kiss. Each finger, held briefly in his mouth, and it imbues in him so much sweet suffering. 

“Ah--” he groans, and then Anthony takes hold of his palm, pouring the contents of the bottle down his fingers, watching it drip so achingly slow. “Oh my…”

Anthony smiles, so innocent despite their position. A.Z. echoes his delight, biting his bottom lip as he reaches around, pulls him closer as he straddles him, and teases him, opens him with wet, tremulous fingers. One, and Anthony whines a little, bearing down onto him as if it is not enough. Two, and he pants like he’s run for miles. Three, and he begins his groaning, his writhing, and the sight is just too much for A.Z. to take before he begins to beg and plead.

“Please, you _ must  _ be ready…” he says, his voice desperate. 

Anthony just grins anew, all teeth, drooling from the sides of his lips, adjusting his position, readying himself on top of A.Z.’s love-swollen cock. 

His lungs feel useless, once he’s in him. It feels a bit like belonging. 

“Oh, god--” he gasps, trying to catch his breath, curling his toes, digging his fingers into Anthony’s hips. He knows his face must look quite foolish, quite astonished. Briefly, his lover bends down, beginning their lovemaking so slow, in, out, gentle like he’s never tried it, and kisses him like their first time. Beneath the awning, unsure and sure all at once. Nervous but so certain that what their were doing was right.

And then, Anthony floors him entirely, rising back up, stretching his arms to cover his face with his hands, and then riding him like a man possessed.  _ Ah, ah, ah-- _ they both get lost in the echo of each other, working in rhythm, the mattress slavish to their movements, the sheets undone and permeated with sweat. And, finally, when it is all too much to take, they can last no longer. Anthony, the squirming, nervous climax of being hollowed out, and A.Z., the triumphant glee of possessing another man’s body. They leave one another a smiling, panting, weeping mess, and Anthony collapses beside him, twitching in pleasure, tossing an arm over his chest.

“You’re an angel…” he says, as he’s said so many times, though never does it cease to rend him. “My darling angel…” he goes on, kissing A.Z.’s cheek in a flurry of love.

A.Z. turns his head to face him, the only thing his spent and feverish body can manage.

“I love you,” he says simply, but with such a heaviness, and he hopes Anthony can understand just what he means. I love you, and it’s for the worse.  _ I love you, and there’s nothing I can do about it. I love you, and it will be forever. I love you, even though I’m supposed to stop _ . 

They curl into one another, breathing heavy, then slower and softer, but never really sleeping. He cannot sleep when it is so good to be awake beside this man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i just need a moment
> 
> would love your feedback, i feel Universe Brain when i'm writing porn but can't tell if it's actually any good lmao
> 
> god......they are so in love,


End file.
